


Unbounded Domesticity

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Baking, Coming Untouched, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Older Characters, Retirement, Rimming, Sussex, unrealistic anal penetration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 12:03:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6115858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson retire together; Holmes takes up the science of baking, Watson has other pursuits. They are super fucking married, and also fucking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unbounded Domesticity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vernets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vernets/gifts).



> Written for B's prompt of _indulge in the felicity of unbounded domesticity_ for ["Come At Once" on LJ.](http://come-at-once.livejournal.com/) Many thanks to Jen for beta!

When Holmes first announced his intention to retire at the age of fifty and move to the coast, he neglected to invite me to come along. We were at odds for a week before we both realized whence the miscommunication had arisen, and then he begged my forgiveness very prettily and told me he’d already bought the place and decided where I was to put my writing desk. No one was surprised when I agreed.

I cherish our cottage in Sussex. It affords us more privacy and quiet than we ever had in the flat at Baker Street, though that flat was where our relationship blossomed and deepened. The house in Sussex is where our partnership has seasoned. We have it all to ourselves, with windows that look out onto the sea beyond the cliffs on one side, the rolling Downs on the other, and between them our garden and Holmes’s hives. A housekeeper comes once a week to restock our ice box and dust the bookshelves, but otherwise we fend for ourselves.

Holmes has committed to retirement with admirable enthusiasm, and spends the summer days investigating and tending his bees or wandering the Downs in pursuit of natural phenomena. In the winter months, he can be found digging through old case files to write new monographs. I have been less philosophical about it, going into Fulworth three days every week to assist the established physician, Dr Turner, with his practice. I have also started writing again, and garner a modest income from publishing fictionalised accounts of Holmes’s adventures in _The Strand Magazine_. Holmes teases me for my sentimentality, but he’s the one who has decided to learn how to bake.

Baking is a science, he assures me, and worth every bit as much of his attention as his chemistry experiments once did. Baking, I remind him, does not carry half as much of a risk of him blowing the windows off of our domicile. 

I look forward to the day he turns to pastry, but bread is his current fascination. He studies the way it rises, how the yeast reacts to different temperatures and conditions, and how much kneading is too much kneading. He has replaced his habitual dressing gown with a blue linen apron, and finishes most days asleep in his armchair, covered with a fine dusting of flour.

I do not know if it is possible for me to have ever loved him more.

I interrupted his study of the rising loaf one morning, meaning to ask if he would need anything from town when I went in, and was captivated by the way he was bent over the kitchen worktop. He didn’t hear me come in, so intently was he staring at the bowl of dough, and when I put my hands on his hips he jumped in surprise.

“John!” he scolded, starting to turn around. “By God, man, announce yourself.”

“I am doing just that,” said I, pressing my hips playfully against his backside.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he muttered, but I could see the blush creeping up his neck. “Insatiable rogue.”

“Never in life,” I protested, giving his hips a squeeze. “I am merely appreciating the charms of my dearest lifelong companion. Please, do not allow me to interrupt your study of that bread.”

“I have used a sourdough starter this time,” Holmes explained, putting his elbows back down on the worktop. “Mrs Simpson has explained the history of the fermented leavening agent, and I am intent on understanding the difference.”

I admit I was only half-listening. I was more interested in the spot where his shirt had come untucked from his trousers, exposing a sliver of bare skin, and the way his spine arched very slightly as I rocked myself against him once more. His fingers curled on the worktop, leaving streaks in the flour.

“I am also interested,” he said, “in the difference in rising time. I have it written down… bugger, where is my notebook?”

“On your left,” I said, stroking my thumbs along the slope of his arse. I honestly hadn’t had any amorous intentions when I walked in, but now I could think of nothing else. My prick had fattened up in my trousers and was now pressing in a friendly way against Holmes’s backside. 

He reached out for the notebook and began thumbing through it, muttering to himself. His blush had intensified. I leaned down, giving him warning by breathing out gently against the back of his neck, and then kissed him there where his hair was softest. He tipped his head forward a little in welcome, so I kissed him again, letting my lips linger. He let out a little breath. His skin was warming beneath my lips, and as I dug my teeth in I felt him tilt his hips back against mine.

“John,” he said, his voice gone low and rough, “I am working.”

“Hmm,” said I, kissing him again and tugging his hips away from the edge of the worktop, “you are indeed engaged in observation. If I disturb you, I shall certainly cease at once.”

There was a pause, in which I slipped my hands around his waist and down the fronts of his thighs, feeling the jut of his stiffening cock, and he in turn decided whether to send me on my way.

“You do not disturb me,” he said finally, turning his head and pressing his cheek against mine. I nuzzled his cheek, kissed it, and then kissed his mouth. He opened sweetly to the gentle pressure of my tongue, but the angle wouldn’t allow me to kiss him as deeply as I wanted. Shame. I gave him one more little peck and then returned my attention to his jaw, his throat, and then the nape of his neck. I bit him again to feel him shiver.

Then he said, “But I wonder if the sourdough starter would react more quickly if the rising dough were set in the sun.”

I made an inquisitive noise against the collar of his shirt. I had played this game before.

He made some notes in his notebook, jotting down that hypothesis. “Warmth does wonders for the yeast, of course.”

“Of course,” I agreed, cupping him through his trousers. I squeezed and rubbed him gently, relishing the way he hardened in my hand, and his script faltered a little. I gripped him tighter and his prick flexed against my palm.

Half his attention was, genuinely, still on the bread. I could detect no obvious change in it from moment to moment, but of course he has always been more observant than I. He loves details and trifles. And I love to distract him.

I groped him for a while, slowly, breathing in the scent of him and rocking my hips almost absently against his arse. My arousal throbbed beneath my skin; the slow pulse of blood and heat between my legs was pleasant. I would certainly fuck him like this, but not for a little while yet. I wished I could get a hand up under his shirt and rub at his nipples until he was squirming, but the way he was leaning on the worktop prevented it. Not to worry. I had other methods of driving him mad.

The moment I felt his hips dip as he spread his legs, the subtlest shift of his weight, I tightened one arm around his narrow waist and held him in place while I opened his trousers. I was still laid along his back, my nose tucked into his hair and my prick wedged solidly between his cheeks. I mouthed at his neck, nibbling the tender places I knew while he still murmured about his rising dough.

I managed to hold back a remark about his also-rising prick, and slipped my hand into his trousers. The fly of his drawers was no match for my questing fingers, and in a moment I touched bare skin and crisp curly hair. Holmes’s cock fit neatly into my hand, smooth and hot and iron hard; he shuddered at the touch, his knees wobbling.

Keeping my grip loose and gentle, I stroked him slowly in the confines of his trousers for a few minutes. Then I twisted my hand, passing my palm over the tender, slippery head of his prick, and gripped him tighter. He dropped his head, breathing out sharply.

“ _John_ ,” he said.

“Hmm?”

He shook his head.

I kissed him in the hollow below his occipital bone where the skin is softest.

Then I let go of him, retrieved my hand, and knelt.

“Oh,” said Holmes, pushing up on one hand.

I planted a palm on his back. “Stay.”

“John.”

His arse is magnificent. I love to be on a level with it, feeling the flex of his powerful thighs and the tremble that starts up when he’s near his crisis and desperate to reach it. I unbuttoned his braces and tugged on his trousers until they were around his knees.

“John, really.”

“I know you’ve washed,” I said, a little muffled by the bite I had just taken of his still-covered arse cheek. His skin was hot, even through his drawers.

He had washed, that very morning, because no one I have ever met loves a bath so much as Sherlock Holmes. He will take two in a day if not kept in check. The water heater is to blame: it can fill our copper tub in ten minutes, and Holmes paid through the nose to have it installed. Besides satisfying his catlike love of hygiene, the heat helps his long-abused knees and his bad shoulder. So I only tease him once a week for it.

The drawers came down with ease, and he was trapped. His prick pushed against the fabric of his apron, and I prayed to God it would leave a mark. I slid my palms up Holmes’s firm thighs, ruffling the sparse hair the wrong direction. His legs were spread just enough that I could wiggle my thumb between and rub his heavy bollocks. He pushed back and I heard him gasp. By now I expected him to be hiding his face in his forearms. 

I dragged my thumb back, along his perineum, and pressed it flat against his hole. My mouth watered. He groaned. I was caught between the almost overwhelming need to lick him at once, and the aching desire to tease him until he begged. The latter won out, so instead of licking him directly I licked my thumb and replaced it. Holmes jolted, and I felt more than I saw his prick jump. I rubbed the pad of my thumb in little circles, massaging, while occupying my mouth with the flesh of his backside, biting it in increasingly smaller bites until I was nibbling the underside of his arse at the juncture of his thigh and he was up on his toes, whimpering into his arm.

Then I did lick him, over my thumb, just the gentlest touch of my tongue against his skin. The muscles in his thighs tightened. I shifted my thumb aside and licked him again, and this time I was rewarded with a low moan. 

The taste of him, anywhere, makes my cock stiff and my heart pound. I can kiss the back of his left hand and be light-headed. The touch of his tongue against mine weakens my knees. The slick, wet head of his prick smeared against my lips sends me into a state of euphoria. But to kiss him here, in this most intimate spot, could very well end my days. If I were to die with my tongue up Sherlock Holmes’s arse, it would at least be happily, if not very dignified. I licked him now with the kind of fervour most appropriately reserved for religious experiences, and he pushed back against my face in kind. I grasped his hips, pulling him back from the worktop edge, and he strained against the confines of his trousers around his knees. True, to have him naked on the bed, legs spread, would make this easier, but I had him exactly where I wanted him. His hole trembled beneath my tongue as he tensed and relaxed, trying to control himself.

I took a hand off his thigh to palm my cockstand through my trousers and nearly came off at the touch. Desperate measures, I thought, opening my flies. My prick sprang out, rigid and ruddy, and I began to stroke myself as I devoured Holmes. I knew I was chafing him with my moustache against his tender skin, but I also know he loves that sensation even in the aftermath. He was whining and squirming. My tongue ached and my lips were numb. I had started off slow, but with every twitch of his hips, every ragged breath that escaped him, I had increased the intensity. I couldn’t help it. 

“John,” he was gasping, “oh, God, John,” and one hand found my hair. His fingers clenched, almost too tight, and for a moment I let him push me harder against his arse. Pointed deliberately, my tongue could slip right inside him. “Oh, John, please!” I pursed my lips against his hole and stuck my tongue in deeper. He cried out.

That was enough. I rocked back on my heels and managed to get to standing without too much additional effort. Holmes let go of my hair and planted his hand on the worktop. I took aim, cock-head kissing against his loosened hole, and pushed in.

Holmes shouted and his back arched, his body rippling around me. He scrabbled, palms skidding, and his hips jerked unexpectedly. He was gasping, trembling, making that very specific, shocked noise he makes.

The realisation that he had just come, untouched, as I’d entered him, all over the back side of his beautiful linen apron, set my blood afire. All from a good tonguing. I took hold of his shoulder and managed half a dozen deep thrusts before I reached my peak. I pressed him hard to the worktop and fucked him through it in short, sharp thrusts, while he groaned and grabbed for my hip.

When I pulled away, Holmes was as limp as a rag. He moaned in protest but made no move to push himself upright again. His entrance was red and gleaming, and my cock gave a valiant twitch. I put my head down between his shoulder blades to catch my breath, petting his heaving sides. He flung one arm back to pat me on the side in reply.

“You have quite ruined my observation,” he muttered into the worktop. “And my apron.”

“You’ll ruin this pair of trousers if you stay like this,” I replied. He gave me a push, struggled upright, pulling his apron over his head, and turned around to face me. His face was a blotchy sort of red and he had flour streaked across it and up into his shamefully disheveled hair. He looked ridiculous, and he pinched my nipple unerringly through my shirt when I started to giggle. He stopped my laughter more completely with a deep, slow kiss. I pinned him once again to the worktop, only this time it was face to face and we were both over-sensitive and prone to skittishness.

“It needs to rise a few hours,” Holmes murmured, getting flour in my hair now. “And you’re not leaving for the surgery until after lunch.”

“Mm,” I agreed.

“Come have a bath with me.”

I started to laugh again. “It’s nearly eleven!”

He kissed me again. “And I’m an absolute mess, thanks to you. If you won’t join me, I don’t care, but go and fill my tub or I’ll eat all the bread before you get home.”

I shucked my trousers altogether rather than tuck myself back in, and snapped him a jaunty salute. He snorted and gave my backside a smack as I turned away.

Needless to say, I did join him.


End file.
